The Black Stallion's Legacy
by TheDancingBandit
Summary: A mysterious black thoroughbred and his trainer prepare for the Dubai World Cup.
1. Dark Strike

The Black Stallion'

The Black Stallion's Legacy

By TheDancingBandit

(Note: The characters Alec Ramsay & The Black, as well as any other recognizable characters, are lovingly borrowed from Mr. Walter Farley's classic series _The Black Stallion. _Please see "Notes" chapter for explanations of racing terms. Enjoy!)

"Hello?"

"Hello? It this Mr. Ramsay?"

"Yes."

"Well Hi! This is Jennifer Pettigrew, and I was just calling to ask you a few---"

"Sorry, I'm not interested in changing my long distance carrier, goodbye."

Surprised but not discouraged, Jennifer Pettigrew jotted 'Call Alec Ramsay again 2-morrow' on a post-it note as she placed the phone back on the receiver. She piled her library of dusty _Racing Forms_ and _Thoroughbred News_ back into the flat cardboard box on the floor with a thud. Then she locked her drawers, flipped off the lamp, and headed out of her 2nd floor office at _The Blood-Horse._ A few seconds later she ran back from the stairwell to fetch her purse and brand-new copy of _Seabiscuit - An American Legend _. Giving the small office a backward glance, she once again headed for home. As she drove down Iron Works Pike she figured the late hour was to blame for Mr. Ramsay's shortness with her. Jennifer had high hopes for the next day. 

"Hello?"

"Hello? Mr. Ramsay? This is Jennifer Pettigrew, I called yesterday? Remember? Well, I am calling to see if you'd like to---"

I'm sorry, Miss, but I've already donated to the Firefighter's Association this year, goodbye."

Jennifer had called shortly after noon. She hung up with a sigh, then re-dialed. This time there was no answer. As she sat listening to the phone ring, her secretary peeked in.

"I told you Alec Ramsay was hard to deal with. He won't talk to any of the press. Last time one of our boys wanted an interview with him, he had him arrested for breaking and entering, the old hellion."

"Barb, I will get this interview. I know how hard he can be, I'm living it. But I think if he hears what I have to say, he'll come around," Jennifer replied with a sly smile. Barb shrugged and went on with her business. 

"Hello?"

"Hello? Is Mr. Ramsay there?"

"Why yes he is. May I ask who is speaking, please?"

"Sure, this is Jennifer Pettigrew, and I've been trying to get a hold of Mr. Ramsay the past few days. I want to ask him a few questions about his horse."

"Why, Miss Pettigrew, Mr. Ramsay loves talking about that horse! By the way, I'm Carmen Brown, his nurse."

"Thank, you, Mrs. Brown, I've been calling every day, but he hasn't been very eager to talk to me."

"Oh, don't I know it! He loves talking about his horse, but he hates talking on the phone; I think he's losing his hearing. Now just a minute and I'll put him on for you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Brown."

"Hello?" came the familiar gruff voice.

"Mr. Ramsay? My name is Jennifer Pettigrew, remember me? I just wanted to ask you a few questions about your black horse...."

The track was shrouded in fog. Several thoroughbreds worked around the huge oval, some jogging, others readying for races with speedy breezes. Clockers strained to see them, their fingers poised to snap the stoppers of their watches at the first sight of a hard-pulling steed. It was a typical morning at Keeneland Race Course. Though the track's season didn't open for another month, many trainers had based their stables at the Lexington track, and still more were shipping in early to train. Among those who were based there was the three-horse stable of Jeremiah Reeves. Though his stable was small in number, it was infamously overflowing in talent. 

As the morning wore on, the sun burned the fog from the track. Reeves looked over the track carefully from the back of his pinto pony, Wally. Most of the other horses were finishing their gallops, and the track was clearing. 

"It's time to get to work," he thought as he nudged Wally forward. The two were very mismatched, for the tall, lanky trainer dwarfed his short, stout pony. They circled the track once more, then headed back to Reeves's barn on the backside. As he approached, he motioned for one of the grooms. 

"Manuel, bring Striker out."

The groom nodded, and went to the first stall on the barn row. Taking a dark-oil leather halter from its peg outside the stall, Manuel carefully unlocked the stall door and slid it open.

The most tremendous horse Manuel had ever seen stood at the back of the stall. Though Manuel had been Striker's groom for two years, the horse still amazed him with his sheer size and power. The horse moved toward him quickly, his teeth bared. "Whoa," Manuel commanded, his voice soothing. The horse stopped in mid-stride and let Manuel approach him. He slid the halter on the horse's large head and fixed the buckle. On the side of the halter was a brass plate with Striker's real name engraved in block letters: **Dark Strike**.

Reeves jumped from the pony's back and strode over to the stall. Manuel already had the bridle on Striker, and was preparing to place the lightweight exercise saddle on the horse's strong, broad back.

"Looks good this morning, eh?" Reeves said, not really as a question, but more as if in wonder. The colt's large eyes were fixed on him in a piercing stare as Manuel applied the exercise wraps.

A better example of thoroughbred perfection didn't exist on the backside of Keeneland. Dark Strike was one of the biggest horses at the track, officially measuring at 17.2 hands. Though he was large, he was a study in proportion. His legs were not overly long, his back not too short. His long neck tied in beautifully to his prominent wither; his shoulders were the perfect angle and build for the races he ran. His well-sprung ribs required a specially-made girth to hold the tiny saddle in place. The colt's face was unusually formed: he had a noticeably concave head, and large, liquid eyes that softened the hard, chiseled look of a normal thoroughbred. His most striking feature, however, was his coal-black coat.

Dark Strike had no white markings. No socks covered his legs, no blaze decorated his face. But he was far from plain. His dark coat shone like ebony in the sun, showing off every rippling muscle as he walked. Watching him was like watching a panther; each movement fluid, his large eyes fixed on something unseen by those around him.

Jeremiah Reeves was always pinching himself when he saw the horse in his barn. He knew that it was pure luck that the horse's owners had shown up at his barn that hot afternoon in July. The giddy McBee family had just shelled out $1.7 million for the black colt by Fusaichi Pegasus at the Keeneland July Select Yearling Sale; he was the highest-priced colt sold that day. They knew no trainers, so the first friendly face they saw when they went to see their prized purchase got the job. Reeves knew they were lucky, too, that he was the friendly face they met. An unscrupulous conditioner would have taken them for all they had, and possibly injured the precious colt.

Manuel gave Striker a final pat on the rump and led the horse out into the morning sunshine. His coat shone like new patent leather. Jeremiah nodded at his exercise rider, Helen, as she strode over whistling.

"Helen, we're going to breeze him a mile today," instructed Jeremiah as he gave her a leg-up. 

"Oh? What ya got planned for him?" she asked in her always-cheerful voice. A mile breeze meant a race was coming soon.

"Oh, something good," Jeremiah replied carelessly. He didn't like revealing his plans for his runners before talking with their owners. It was especially important for him to get approval this time, for what Jeremiah was planning would be the biggest undertaking he'd ever dreamed up.

Manuel handed the lead to Jeremiah, and he led the huge black horse to the track entrance. One horse remained on-track, with two outriders. Both Helen and Jeremiah searched the track for any tractors or trucks, and finding none, she sent Striker out at a canter the wrong way of the track.

Striker was a complete professional. He went along easily, his strides even and measured. When the other horse passed, he gave a playful buck. When they reached the grandstand, Helen turned Striker back the right-way of the track, and asked him to go.

In a flash, Striker leaped forward, pulling against Helen's tight hold. She leaned far over his withers, measuring the time in her head. At the quarter pole she turned him loose. It was as if Striker had been shot from a cannon. He surged forward in a mighty lunge. Helen pressed against his neck, urging him with her hands. Meanwhile, from his vantage point in the clocker's stand, Jeremiah had clicked the stopwatch.

Dark Strike tore around the first turn, grabbing at the bit between his teeth as he pulled ahead. His nostrils flared; he drew in deep, quick breaths with each stride. Helen needed all the strength she could muster to keep Striker under control. They blew down the backstretch, past the outriders, each stride gobbling up nearly 20 feet of the track.

Jeremiah watched silently in the clocker's stand. Striker was quite a sight out on the track with his black coat and huge size. From the raised stand, all horses looked like dogs; from the same stand, Striker still looked like a horse.

It seemed to Helen that they were going at a quite comfortable pace, almost too easy for a breeze. As they entered the final turn she tapped Striker with the whip, and he went all-out to the finish line. She scrubbed his neck vigorously to urge him faster. Jeremiah clicked the stopwatch as Striker finished the mile. The hands had stopped at 1:00 flat.

Helen pulled the dark horse up; he fought her by tossing his head. He sailed past the grandstand once more at a gallop. The railbirds watched with awe.

Jeremiah met Helen and Striker at the track entrance. The black horse was sweating, but not too badly. Manuel, equipped with a knit cooler and rub rags, was ready to take him to the wash rack. Helen leaped from Striker's back. 

"He went in one minute flat," Jeremiah answered Helen's questioning look. The jockey beamed proudly.

"I knew it! He's the best horse I've ever ridden!" she exclaimed, her green eyes flashing.

"Save that sentiment for when you've been around for more than a year," Jeremiah said sarcastically.

Helen cowered mockingly. "Oh, Mr. Rain-On-My-Parade!" 

The two went back and forth insulting each other, all the way back to the barn. 


	2. The Idea

Jennifer Pettigrew sat in her car,

Jennifer Pettigrew sat in her car, breathing deeply, trying to calm herself down. She was only a few steps from Alec Ramsay's door, only a few steps from the interview she'd worked so hard to get. It was nearly noon. Carmen Brown had told her Mr. Ramsay was a better talker in the afternoon. She gathered her notes, questions she'd worked a week writing, and her long yellow legal pad, then got out of the car. After she'd locked the door, she had to reopen it when she saw her tape recorder on the back seat. 

She strode with determination to the door of Mr. Ramsay's small condo. She rang the doorbell. A smooth, southern voice came over the loudspeaker beside the mailbox.

"Mr. Ramsay's home, who is there?"

"Jennifer Pettigrew, Mrs. Brown," Jennifer answered.

"Oh, just give me a minute, hon," Carmen said.

Seconds later, the nurse was opening the door, inviting Jennifer in. Carmen was a thin African-American woman with a bright smile. Over her clothes she wore an apron with the words "LexCare Home Assistants" embroidered on the pocket. 

"Mr. Ramsay has been quite eager to see you today, Miss Pettigrew," Carmen informed her.

"Please, just call me Jennifer."

"Certainly, Jennifer, he has so much to say. And you asked him so nicely over the telephone. Not like that Mr. Wills. I really didn't like that man. Mr. Ramsay hated him; you know he had him arrested!"

Jennifer couldn't help laughing at her colleague.

"I work with Mr. Wills. He was the first one to tell me not to come here." 

Carmen led Jennifer through the living room, which was richly decorated in horse paintings and trophies. Over the small fireplace was painting almost too large for the room. Jennifer stopped to admire it. In the center of the piece was a firey black stallion. His neck was arched, black mane flowing over his mighty crest. The horse's eyes were so lifelike that it seemed to Jennifer they would blink at any moment. The horse was posed in a prance, his tail flagged and billowing over his back. It was an Arabian, a majestic, proud Arabian. The desert sands blew around him. Jennifer stood transfixed. The painting was housed in an elegant gilt frame with carved eagles on the corners. A plaque in the center read: SHETAN -- THE BLACK. 

"This is Mr. Ramsay's horse," Jennifer said in awe.

"Yes, that was his pride and joy. All the other paintings are of the offspring from that one horse," Carmen replied, waving her hand around at the dozens of blacks and bays that crowded the walls.. 

"I guess I should get to interviewing, then," Jennifer said, snapping back to reality. Carmen nodded. She showed Jennifer to a large glass patio door beside the fireplace.

"Mr. Ramsay is outside. He wanted you to interview him there," said Carmen.

Jennifer carefully slid the door open and stepped outside.

"If you need anything, just holler; I'll be here in a minute," Carmen said, "ya' hear, Mr. Ramsay?"

"Yes, Carmen."

Behind a ficus tree, at the edge of a potter's shelf, was Alec Ramsay. He sat in a wheelchair, his back to Jennifer.

"Mr. Ramsay?"

He slowly turned to face her. 

"Miss Pettigrew, come sit down," he said, pointing to a wooden adirondak chair beside him.

"Mr. Ramsay, I just wanted to say how grateful I am for you to do this for me," Jennifer began, her voice full of admiration. "It's nothing," Alec replied. 

Jennifer was surprised at how old he looked. The photos she had of a young boy with a flash of red hair were a far cry from the man before her now. His small body was frail, though he still sat up straight, an effect of years of life in the saddle. His once-muscular arms were wrinkled and thin. She didn't want to think about his legs, that had once held him over the strong backs of thousands of horses. 

Alec noticed her eyes wander down to his feet.

"I can walk; I just prefer to use this," he said, patting the chair's leather-covered arm.\

Relieved, Jennifer pulled out her tape recorder.

"I'm going to record your responses, so I can go back later and get all your answers right when I get ready to write. I hope you don't mind," she looked hopefully.

"Not at all. I must ask one thing, though, I won't answer questions about Pam Athena," he said, rather forcefully.

"Oh, Mr. Ramsay, I wasn't going to ask about anything like that," she lied, shuffling the page of questions about Pam Athena to the back of the stack.

"Good. That Wills guy tried to pull that stuff on me, and I got him, the old hellion!"

"Now, let's start from the beginning. When did you first see The Black?" Jennifer began.

"It was on a trip with my father on the ship called the _Drake_ . When we were at port, I heard these strange voices yelling; it was scary for me, you know, I didn't know what they were saying. So, naturally, I had to have a look. I saw these Arabs trying to load a black horse. He was blindfolded, and there were about seven or eight men pulling on him with long ropes, maybe 12 feet long apiece. The Black didn't like it at all, and the dock echoed with his screams..."

Jennifer listened intently as Alec Ramsay told his story of a black horse and a ship, of a storm and a deserted island. His wizened face held traces of the boy he once was; his cheerful dimples remained and laugh lines rayed from the sides of his still-youthful eyes. Though now more sparse, his red hair was still vivid. At that moment, his eyes looked far-off, through space and time, to a place where a boy and horse rode happily across the wave-washed sand.

Jeremiah sat in his tiny, cramped office, shuffling through paperwork, trying to take his mind off the daunting task ahead. He'd decided to ask the McBees about entering Dark Strike in a race. It was not just any race, though; Jeremiah had the Dubai World Cup on his mind. 

He rumpled the condition books in his hands, trying to find another race that same weekend that would be just as big. Nothing he saw satisfied him. The Dubai World Cup was the biggest race in the world, run at 1 1/4 miles on dirt, and with a purse of $6 million, the richest race ever. The World Cup was the brainchild of Sheik Mohammed al Maktoum of the United Arab Emirates. It was destined to be a classic from the very beginning, for in the first running the incomparable Cigar traveled from the U.S. to take part. It was the 13th race in his 16 win streak, and netted him millions in prizemoney. Since its inception, so many great runners had competed that it was a virtual global who's who of thoroughbred legends. 

Jeremiah yearned for the same kind of recognition for Striker. Though the five-year-old was the best horse Jeremiah'd ever trained, Dark Strike did not always show it. In his last three races, Striker had lost two and was disqualified to second in another. That DQ came in the Breeders' Cup Classic, and it was a painful loss for all involved. Jeremiah second-guessed himself every time the Classic was brought up; he watched replay after replay from every angle trying to figure out what went wrong. Jeremiah could tell that the Breeders' Cup loss had taken its toll on Striker, too, for the horse hadn't trained as brilliantly as before; the one-minute mile was a tick off his usual time. He was also less energetic, preferring to spend his time facing the back of his stall rather than neighing at Kiowa from across the barn aisle. A win in the world's richest race would redeem the big black horse on a grand scale.

Jeremiah was shaken from his thoughts by the rustle of the mail carrier outside. He got up from his desk to see what was delivered. In his small brass mailbox were the track announcements, a _Racing Form_ and a neon orange envelope. Jeremiah knew instantly what it was: The McBees had written.

He closed the door behind him and slit open the bright envelope. The card inside had a picture of Graceland on the front. The McBees were from Memphis; greeting card entrepreneurs. Jeremiah sighed as he read the note. He recognized the handwriting as the light scrawl of the McBee's teenage daughter, Georgie.

_Dear Jeremiah,_

_I just wanted to write you that we are coming up to Keenland on Saturday the 23. We want to see Striker and Kiowa, and talk with you about your plans for them for this year. We also have a surprise for you, but I am not telling you anything else about it. You will have to wait until Saturday to find out what it is! Can't wait to see you again!\_

_Yours Very Truly,_

_Georgie McBee_

"Georgie. They've bought another horse," Jeremiah sighed, shaking his head. "The last time she said they had a surprise it was Kiowa; gosh, I wonder what it will be this time."

Kiowa was the McBees' second colt, a son of War Chant. Like his namesake, Kiowa was not easy to work with. The last thing the trainer wanted was another one with his temper.

As Jeremiah admired at the photo of Graceland, he noticed a yellowed corner sticking out from under the condition books. Setting the card aside, he slid the old paper toward him and studied it.

It was a pedigree, written in a fine calligrapher's hand. At the top of the paper was lettered **Geneology of Dark Strike, black colt**. He wondered where this had come from, for he had never seen such a paper before.

The first few lines told of Striker's sire, Fusaichi Pegasus. That stallion had won the Kentucky Derby, and had sired the Kentucky Oaks winner, Artemis, the year Striker was purchased. But Jeremiah was not interested in that part of the paper; a name jumped out at him from near the bottom of the page: **The Black**.

It took a second for this to sink in. The black horse in his barn was not only a son of FuPeg. Striker was a descendant of the famous Black! 

Smiling from ear to ear, Jeremiah excitedly grabbed the phone from its hook and dialed. He'd made his decision. As he waited for an answer, his mind raced. The McBees would certainly say yes to his plan. The only question was would he be able to pull himself, as well as Dark Strike, together for an effort of global proportions?


	3. Surprise

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"Mr. Ramsay, what happened when you came back from the desert? After the earthquake?" Jennifer asked. She and Alec Ramsay had been talking for over an two hours. The shadows were beginning to lengthen, and a slight chill was setting in. It would be dark soon, and then Jennifer would have her interview. But sitting there, listening to the old man tell stories of his stallion's great victories, she wished she could stay there forever.

"Well, I decided to retire The Black permanently when we got back to Hopeful Farm. That desert had taken a lot out of him, and fighting with those mustangs wasn't so easy. He wasn't the youngest stallion. I really didn't want to turn him out, but I realized it would be selfish of me to keep him working that hard. He'd given me all I'd asked for, the least I could do was do something small for him.\

"It wasn't like there wasn't another stallion for me to work with. We had Satan, but he was a completely different horse from the Black. For the most part we bred and sold the get of The Black and Satan. We did very well in the beginning, but when the Jockey Club allowed The Black and his progeny to become full-fledged thoroughbreds, well, business took off. 

"Meanwhile, I was at the track just about every day riding horses. We got a lot of good ones from The Black; lots of stakes winners."

"Did you have a favorite of The Black's get?" Jennifer asked expectantly.

"Why, I loved them all; it would be like picking one of my kids. But I did think Black's fillies were some of the best I ever handled. Especially Black Minx." 

The week leading up to the McBees' visit Jeremiah Reeves was a bit more quiet than usual. He kept a stony poker face most of the time, but when asked about his horses, especially Striker, the corners of his mouth curled into a mischievous grin. After watching Kiowa and his other trainee, Genius Switch, work out in the mornings, he scurried off to his office and hid out for the rest of the day. This was so far from his usual outgoing behavior that backstretch personalities were convinced something was terribly wrong. Rumors whispered at the track kitchen accused him of affairs with every other trainer's wife, that he was drugging his horses, and that he was even planning to kill himself.\

Even the always-cheerful Helen was worried about him. She paced down the barn aisle, trying to decide if she should confront him. \

"I just don't know what's gotten into him, Manuel," she said, her voice full of concern.\

Manuel sat on a bag of shavings near Kiowa's stall, humoring Helen with the occasional nod.

"Just ask him," the groom suggested. 

"I would, but I don't want him to think I'm nosy. I'm not nosy, I'm just concerned. A concerned friend, right Manny?"

"Si, a concerned friend. Just go ask. He didn't look angry this morning," he replied.

"Allright, I'll go ask him, right now," she declared, stomping her foot. Kiowa's head shot up at the noise. "Sorry boy," she said, then strode off toward Jeremiah's office. Manuel chuckled and shook his head. 

"Helen, she worry over nothing."

Helen tried to see in through the small office window, but found the small space not covered in horse photos only revealed the corner of a file cabinet. Gathering up all the courage she could muster, she knocked forcefully on the door.

"Who is it?" came the muffled voice from inside.

"Helen."

"Come in."

Helen swung the door open wide, which sent papers flying everywhere, and leaped into the small office."

"Whoa, Helen," Jeremiah shouted in surprise.

"Sorry," she said sheepishly. She glanced around nervously.

"So why are you here?"asked Jeremiah as he picked up the scattered paper.

"Listen, Jeremiah, I'm worried about you," she began. "You've been hiding in here all week. You know what they're saying about you? The stories? Of course, I don't believe any of it, of course." She continued at a rapid-fire pace, throwing all her concerns at him, one right after the other. "But I do think I should know something, because I consider myself a good friend of yours, and I don't want anything to happen to you, because that would be very bad, not just for me, but for you. And the horses."

As she spoke, he tried hard to stifle his laughter.

"...And when they ask you about something, you get this look -- That one, Jeremiah! What is wrong with you?" she gasped.

"Helen, Helen, calm down," he said, placing her hand into his."There's nothing wrong with me. 

"But-"

"Now you listen. The McBees are coming this afternoon. They have a surprise for me, and I have one for them."

"They bought another horse?" Helen asked.

"That's what I'm betting. But I'm going to let you in on my surprise for them. Now brace yourself; you might want to sit down for this," he said. 

Helen cleared a space at the corner of the desk with her free hand and sat down. Still cradling her other hand delicately, Jeremiah began again.

"I want to take Striker to the Dubai World Cup."

Helen gave a shriek of joy and leaped from the desk. 

"The World Cup? The World Cup!" she chanted, first in question, then in total excitement. 

"Yes! I think he can do it, and do it with style. I am so confident the McBees'll go for it that I have already booked a plane for Dubai!" he exclaimed.

Oh my goo-hood-ness!" Helen shrieked again, in her best 'southern belle' accent. She danced around laughing and throwing the papers back into the air. 

"Now you see why I've been acting strangely. I wanted to keep this a secret until I cleared it with everybody. It's gonna be big, the World Cup, and there will be press everywhere once we make the announcement. It'll be hard to get a quiet moment. So I took a whole week of them!"

A few hours later, Jeremiah stood alone at the end of the barn row waiting for the McBees. He was dressed in his best suit, and had his sandy brown hair slicked back.

"Lookin' SHARP, playa!" Helen giggled when she passed him. 

The barn row was quiet except for the slight snore of Genius Switch. Jeremiah was drawn to Striker's stall when he heard the muffle of shuffling hay. He leaned on the bottom of the stall's dutch door and gazed in at the big horse. Striker was blanketed and his legs were wrapped. He stood facing the wall, his head low. 

"Striker," Jeremiah whispered.

The horse looked up quickly and spun around. Standing eye-to-eye with the black horse sent chills down Jeremiah's spine. Striker had a piercing gaze, unlike any horse he'd ever trained. When other horses hardly held a gaze for more than a few seconds, Striker stared as if daring him to look away. There was something in those deep brown eyes that captivated Jeremiah's imagination. It was as if they were a set of crystal balls, and that if he looked deep enough into them, he would see the future. Striker stood calm, his ears pricked forward, listening to Jeremiah's soft calls. Looking into them now, the reflection from the orange bucket hanging in the corner of the stall seemed like a hot-burning fire ready to blaze out of control.

The sound of an approaching car awakened Jeremiah from his daydream. The McBees had arrived. Mrs. McBee was the first to step out of their wood-panelled station wagon, which looked very out of place among the trucks and SUVs around the barn. She was followed by Georgie, who sprang from the car like a gazelle and rushed toward him.

"You won't believe what we have for you!" she cried, throwing her arms around him in a big hug.

"I bet I can guess," he said.

"I bet you can, too, but you're _going_ to act surprised when I tell you anyway," Georgie said sweetly.

"I'll act surprised if you act surprised when I tell you what I have to tell you," he replied.

"Yes, Helen stopped us at Barn 6 and told us you have a surprise for us," said Mrs. McBee. "You look very nice, by the way."

"Oh, she did, huh?" there was a hint of annoyance in his voice. 

"Yes, she was pretty excited herself," added Mr. McBee, who had just climbed out of the car.\

"OK, before anyone gives any secrets away," he said, looking at Georgie pointedly, "let's go to my office where it's not so chilly."

The four walked down the barn row to the small office. As they passed Striker's stall, the horse stuck his head out and flicked his ears about. Kiowa let out a high-pitched squeal when they passed him, but Genius Switch merely rolled onto his side and snored louder.

The office was crowded and stuffy with all of them squeezed into the corners.

"Sorry for the mess," Jeremiah apologized, moving a stack of _Racing Forms_ to the floor.

"Now, Jeremiah, what is it that you have for us that's so surprising?" Georgie asked.

"No, no, you go first," he said.

"Fine. I guess you probably got a hint from Georgie's card," said Mrs. McBee, "that we have bought another horse."

"Yeah, it's a wonderful, lovable, filly!" exclaimed Georgie, clapping her hands together.\

"A filly! That's great! What did you name her?" Jeremiah asked.

"I thought she was a tomboy, but Caroline didn't want to name her that," said Mr. McBee, glancing at his wife.

"Yes, Caroline didn't like 'Tomboy," said Mrs. McBee. She pulled from her purse a photograph and handed it to Jeremiah.

The filly was only a weanling, still at her mother's side. 

"It's a daughter of Escena," said Georgie, "and her sire is Storm Cat. So I called her Storm Essence. I like it for her."

"My second suggestion was 'Iscenastorm' but that didn't go over very well," added Mr. McBee.

"She's a great-looking filly, Georgie. Did you pick her out?"

Georgie beamed proudly, nodding. She had chosen Dark Strike for them, and Kiowa, too. 

"I think we've got a good pinhooker in our midst," said Jeremiah. He reached behind Mr. McBee and pinned the photo on his bulletin board. 

"Now for my surprise," he continued.

The McBees looked at him expectantly.

"I think Striker, uh, Dark Strike, is good enough for the Dubai World Cup," he began.

Georgie's eyes widened; Mr. McBee scratched his head in disbelief.

"Do you really want to try that race? Especially after the Breeders' Cup?" asked Mrs. McBee.

"I've moved past the Breeders' Cup," Jeremiah replied. Surprised at what he said, he swallowed hard. "I have looked at everything, and it wasn't my fault, or Dark Strike's. It was just bad luck, the 'Racing Gods' or something, I don't know. I may never know. But if Dark Strike is ever going to show how truly talented he is, he has to win something very big. I think the World Cup is just big enough."

"OK, then, Jeremiah, I believe you. Let's go to Dubai!" Georgie said, jumping up and pretending to fly toward the door.

"How much will this cost?" asked Mr. McBee, fearfully.

"Oh, the Sheik pays all the costs to send the horse and two people for thirty days of training. That's enough fare for Dark Strike, Manuel, and me," Jeremiah replied. Mr. McBee was thoroughly satisfied with this, for he nodded and smiled.

"What about Helen?" Georgie asked, stopping her flight.

"Oh, I think we can help Helen find a seat on the plane," said Mrs. McBee. "She is Striker's exercise rider, after all. We wouldn't want a stranger on our World Cup winner's back!" 

"When do you leave?"asked Georgie.

"Well, I kinda took for granted that you would say yes, so last week I called the Sheik and told him to save room on the plane for Dark Strike," said Jeremiah. "We'll be leaving on Wednesday. But you can stay in the States until the week of the race. I've heard it's kinda boring until then."

They talked about Dark Strike and the World Cup for most of the evening before Mr. McBee suggested they go out to eat. After a country dinner at the Cracker Barrel, the McBees returned to their hotel. Jeremiah went back to the track to check the horses before going home. Dark Strike was safely in the stall, dosing. Genius Switch had stopped snoring and was up pawing through his straw. Kiowa was pacing. 

That night, Jeremiah dreamed not of a victorious World Cup, but of the heartbreaking loss in the Breeders' Cup. Dark Strike had a dream trip, stalking the pace the whole way with no jostling or bumping. In the turn for home, Dark Strike, ridden by jockey Tyler Baze, made his big move and swept by the leaders. He was running well when suddenly, without warning, Baze felt the black horse swerve inside to the rail. He cut in front of another horse, causing him to pull up sharply. Dark Strike pulled against the jockey, charging to the lead, and at the wire he was a half-length in front. But tote board blinked OBJECTION. It was all too easy for the stewards to take him down. DISQUALIFIED. 


	4. The Road to Dubai

It was dark.

It was dark. Jennifer Pettigrew had spent the entire afternoon talking to Alec Ramsay about his black horse. They had moved inside from the patio, and joined Carmen in the living room beside the fire. Jennifer had changed her tape twice, to make sure every word the aged horseman said was recorded. She dreaded the next page of questions, for they had to do with the last twenty years.

"So, Mr. Ramsay, I have some questions that may be difficult for you to answer, but please try to answer them as best as you can," she said gently.

"As long as they are not about Pam," he said forcefully.

"No; Mr. Ramsay, can you tell me about the last few years you had with Black?"

Alec took a deep breath and stared at the painting above the mantle.

"The Black was over twenty years old. He had so many great get that it seemed like he would live forever. We'd limited his book to about 40 mares when he turned fifteen because he had a back problem. But it was like he'd just gotten better with age. He sired many winners, and he and Satan had a rivalry going. Sometimes Satan would have more winners, but not a lot. As the years went by, new sires came, some from Europe, like Nasrullah. That was a big hit for us, because Nasrullah was just a super sire. He had a Horse of the Year in his first crop here, and kept on going. We still had success with crossing the Black's Arabian blood over straight thoroughbreds and selling our broodmares. 

"About a year before he died, I pensioned Black. His back had flared up again, and he was having trouble walking. It was heartbreaking to see him like that, just hobbling around the paddock. There wasn't much the vets could do at that time. They told me the only option I had was to-- Well, you know, I couldn't do that. Black was still fiery; he still had a savage temper when he wanted to. On better days, when he wasn't so stiff, he'd tear off across the paddock, and fight with Satan along the fenceline. He was proud, that stallion.

"The last days he had taken ill, a fever that wouldn't break. He fought the fever for two days. He was always a fighter. I stayed up with him the last night. He was laying in the straw, looking badly beaten. The vet was coming to give him a medicine tube, and I was going to meet him there. I was sitting in the straw with Black when he just shuddered; his legs curled up and then he struck out; it was like he was trying to run. I held his head in my lap and talked to him, and eventually he went still. His breathing was shallow. I cried for the first time in many years that night," he stopped; the pained expression he wore told Jennifer everything.

She felt a tear roll down her cheek. Carmen's eyes were glassy, also. The room was heavy with sadness for a horse long since passed. Jennifer realized for the first time just how important the black stallion was to the man before her. Carmen stood up and got a box of tissue from the kitchen, wiping her eyes as she sat back down. She passed the box to Jennifer, who took a handful.

Alec cleared his throat and continued, his voice wavering.

"I wanted to say goodbye to The Black in a way I felt would honor his life and accomplishments. The traditional way to lay a horse to rest is cremation, except for three things: bury his head, so that he may see; his hooves so that he my run swiftly; and his Heart, for the will to keep running in face of defeat.

"I could not bear to do that to him. Though the burial is symbolic, I couldn't bring myself to have that done to the Black's body. I was told the only horse in a long while who'd been buried entire was Man O' War. Because I had great respect for Big Red, I didn't want to take away from his glory," Alec explained. He took a sip of water before continuing.

"So, I had the Black cremated in his entirety. It was so hard for me to have done, but I felt it was the best. A few days after that, I hopped a plane for Arabia."

The United Arab Emirates was as boring as Jeremiah had told Georgie, at least from the air. From his plane window all he could see were miles and miles of brown sand. The city of Dubai itself was quite like an American city, with its tall, modern buildings and paved streets. The only differences were the few mule carts among the cars, and long robes covering the people from head to toe. Upon landing, he, Manuel, and Helen were chauffeured directly to Nad-Al-Sheba Racecourse, where Dark Strike was waiting.\par \tab The track was an oasis in the desert. Its entrance was beautifully landscaped, with palm trees and exotic flowers surrounding a long, art-deco style sign that proclaimed "Home of the Dubai World Cup". The group was given a grand tour of the facility. The grandstand was luxurious, with richly upholstered seats and televisions hanging every few feet from the rafters. Grounds crews drove tractors around the track, which Jeremiah inspected thoroughly. Helen was completely amazed at the track's sparkling new jockey's quarters, where everything was scaled to her size.\

"No stepstools! I can't believe it!" she exclaimed.

Long, low barns were arranged in careful rows on the backstretch. They were state-of-the-art structures, with all manner of safety features. The stalls were still too new for crib marks. In a horticultural feat of epic proportions, there were huge expanses of pasture behind the barns. 

"Green grass in the desert, whodathunk?" Jeremiah quipped.

Dark Strike was stalled in the barn with other American imports. As usual, Bob Baffert had his big horse, this time Preakness winner Delta Bluesman. Elliot Walden brought his mare Searchlight for the feature race, as well as a colt for the Dubai Derby, Got Game. There were other trainers with horses for races on the World Cup undercard; some brought sprinters for the Duty Free, some had turf milers for the Sheema Classic. This year's World Cup renewal had brought out a strong contingent of Americans.

The next morning, Jeremiah was out early on his borrowed pony, Fez, observing the other horses' workouts. He saw little, however, for a crew of turf reporters stopped him when he passed the rail, throwing questions at him from every direction. The press had been relentless since he'd made the announcement the day after his conversation with the McBees. He calmly obliged them, for a while. His main concern was the mentality of Striker, who'd been increasingly hard to handle since he'd gotten off the plane. Manuel was with him in the barn, calming him for his international debut. 

Helen pushed through the crowd of pencil-pushers and hopped over the rail to meet Jeremiah.

"What are we doing this morning?"she asked, panting.

"Just go easy with him today, get him used to the track. It's like Churchill Downs, deep and sandy."

"Aye, aye," she said with a salute, and bounded back over the rail. 

Between questions Jeremiah caught glimpses of the competition: a dark brown gelding son of Sunday Silence from Japan, a chestnut filly from Great Britain, and Godolphin's two entries, Monserrat and Dubai Magic.

The Japanese gelding, Little Tokyo, was almost as tall as Striker, but was thin and wiry. The filly was also quite large, and had a sweeping stride. 

"Dangerous," he noted. In fact, all the horses on the track were incredibly talented, so much so that he was beginning to feel slightly out of place. His doubt increased when he saw the two Godolphin horses work out. 

Monserrat and Dubai Magic were both classic European-style racers. Their manes were pulled neatly, with banged tails and croup marks. Monserrat was a grey son of Daylami. Daylami had won the Breeders' Cup turf in his only American start, and won the hearts of many. The colt was from his first crop; he had won two stakes on the turf in France. Dubai Magic was a dirt racer, sired by Aljabr. That colt's bright bay coat was in full bloom; dapples covered his belly, neck, and flanks. The pair would be highly competitive as the home team, with more experience on the track and in the hot desert temperatures.

The heat was one thing Jeremiah wasn't used to. It was still wintry in Kentucky, yet even in the summer the mercury never rose as high as it did in Dubai. The Japanese horse was wringing wet by the time he left the track, though he'd only trained at a canter. The filly shook her head uncomfortably and then stopped; her groom and trainer rushed out to see to her with a bucket of water. Dark Strike would certainly feel the heat in his coal-black coat. Wiping sweat from his brow, Jeremiah turned Fez toward the track opening and back to the stables. 

As he approached, the sounds of a struggle echoed from his barn. Urging Fez faster, Jeremiah leaned forward to see what was happening. Manuel, not looking where he was going, ran out of the barn and into Jeremiah's path. Fez skidded to a stop; Jeremiah slid from the saddle and in three steps was inside the barn. Dark Strike was tearing around his stall, tossing his head and snorting. Helen stood at the front of the stall, waving her hands when the horse charged the door.

"What happened?" Jeremiah shouted.

"I don't know!" Helen cried. "Manny went into the stall with the saddle and Striker just lunged at him!"

"Whoa! Whoa, Striker!" Jeremiah bellowed. Startled at the noise, Dark Strike stopped in mid-stride. Jeremiah slowly opened the stall door and stepped inside. Striker was blowing hard and sweat ran down his sides. Cautiously, quietly, Jeremiah walked to the horse's head. The reins hung limp from the bit; he grabbed them up and patted Striker's bulging neck.

"Whoa, easy," he cooed.

"He just go loco," Manuel muttered. The groom had come back into the barn and was watching as Jeremiah unbuckled the bridle.

"Well, there goes our training today," said Jeremiah shortly. Then he looked up at the groom, who was staring down at the straw. "It's fine, Manuel, he's still a little kicked up from the flight."

"I'll just walk him," offered Helen.

"No, I'll take care of him. Helen, you and Manuel can take the day off. We're all just a little kicked up from the flight."

Jeremiah hung the sweat-covered bridle on the hook in the tackroom and brought out Striker's leather halter. The nameplate flashed in the sunlight as he placed it on the black horse. He led Striker to the washrack and hosed him off. Striker calmed down instantly as the cool water splashed over his back. When the horse shook off, tiny droplets showered Jeremiah, cooling him off, too. They would have a hard thirty days in Dubai, Jeremiah knew, if they couldn't keep calm.

The next morning, Manuel and Helen met Jeremiah at the barn. He'd arrived early and saddled Striker while it was still dark. After giving Helen a leg up on Striker, he led the horse to the track. Manuel rode along behind on Fez. The track was still; they were the first ones out.

Dark Strike looked around with interest, his ears flicking back and forth. Helen held him at a walk for one lap of the track. With sweeping strides he paraded past the grandstand, empty and waiting for the big day. Striker was unfazed by all the new sights; even the oddly-shaped Nad-al-Sheba strip didn't confuse him. He leaned into the bridle suddenly, pulling Helen forward. She cued him to trot, and Striker surged forward. The horse skimmed the sand lightly; if not for the races Striker would certainly have been a dressage horse. 

As the sun broke up the darkness, more horses came out to work. Delta Bluesman strode proudly onto the track with his workmate, Winter. The two trotted briskly around once, then set up for a gallop. The press swarmed around Bob Baffert as he watched his pair go around the course. Flashbulbs popped like lightning when the horses passed. Jeremiah watched the spectacle from his safe spot on the rail, laughing to himself. There were benefits to being a virtually unknown trainer, after all. 

Striker, meanwhile, had seen the other horses enter the track and immediately began to pull at the bit. Helen steadied him; his smooth trot broke into a jolting prance. Delta Bluesman cantered past them, followed by Winter. Striker tossed his head and snorted, trying to free himself from Helen's strong hold. She turned his head toward the rail, away from the other horses. Striker promptly spun around, swishing his tail irritably. Helen glanced over at the rail; Jeremiah waved for her to let Striker lose. She gave the horse his head and he cantered off toward the others. He seemed to take to the track well, Helen thought. Much better than Winter, who was already blowing as he trudged through the deep track.

After an hour of light work, Jeremiah highjacked Fez from Manuel and rode out to Helen and Striker. He clipped a lead onto Striker's bridle and led him to Manuel, who threw a cooler over the horse's broad black back after Helen dismounted. The groom strode off quickly, leading the horse to the wash rack.

"How did he feel?" Jeremiah asked Helen.

"He felt real good, like he liked the track okay," she replied.

"Great. I noticed he got a little rowdy out there, huh?"

"Yeah, when those other two passed us it was like he wanted to go run 'em down," she said, a perplexed look on her face. "He's not done that before," she added.

"No, he's not usually like that...." Jeremiah's voice trailed off as he watched the horse walk back to the barn. Striker stopped every few strides, turning his head to look back at the other horses gallop. Manuel pulled sharply on the lead each time, until they were out of sight of the track.

"Think he's still hyper from the trip?" Helen asked.

"No, I don't think so," he said, "I think it's something else."

"Oh, well, when you find out what it is, would you please fill me in? In the meantime, d'you mind giving me a lift to the jockeys' room?"

Jeremiah nodded, and Helen clambered up behind him on Fez. The pony's ears flicked back and forth as if contemplating where the additional weight had come from. He took a few tentative steps forward, then, at Jeremiah's urging, he trotted on.


	5. Post Draw

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"The Sheik, Abd-al-Rahman, was incredibly surprised to see me at his doorstep," said Alec. He was coming to the end of his tale, and the end of the interview. Jennifer eagerly jotted notes as he talked, but with tears clouding her eyes. This was the part of the story that not many knew, the part that most confused her.

"I told him about the Black's death, and he was very upset. I think the only one more upset was Tabari, his wife, who had named Black. His Arabic name was Shetan, you know, it means 'devil'. I never thought it was a good name for him, but I guess he was just closer to me than to the Arabs. Well, I told them that I wanted to return Black to his homeland. 

"The Sheik told me where I should go to do that; it was a broad, flat, sandy place, where the wind whipped up small clouds of dust and blew them around so that I couldn't hardly see in front of me. I waited a few days, until the wind died down some, then I took one of the Sheik's horses out early one morning. It was very nice that morning, cool for the desert, and perfect for a ride. The Black would have loved it; I could see him prance and kick up dust as if he were right there. But the horse I borrowed wasn't anything like him; it took a swift kick in the ribs to get him to canter," a look of disgust flashed across his wrinkled face. 

"I stopped on a dune. It was completely still all around, no wind, not even a cloud in the sky. I took the urn from my saddlebag and opened it; I started to cry again, for the first time since his death. I tried to hold myself together, it was very hard to, and sprinkled the ashes onto the ground. They fell in a line; I couldn't stand it. I kicked the horse around and sent him galloping right through the stuff. But just when I got up to the line, the wind picked up. The sand started to blow around, and the ashes with it. I tried to shield my eyes as the dust blew up in front of me. I stayed there for a while, watching the sand swirl on the wind for hours.

"The Sheik finally came up to get me. I told him what happened, and he told me something I've never forgotten -- 

_When God wanted to create the horse, He said to the South Wind: I want to make a creature out of you. Condense. And the wind condensed_.

"The Black was truly a creature of the wind; he could be calm and gentle, or as furious as a tornado. It's the worst curse ever put on humans; that we should outlive our most trusted and loyal companions."

Jennifer glanced back at the painting. The sand billowed up in the background, the only evidence of the invisible wind. Like the wind, the Black was all around them; though unseen, he was not ignored. It was quite fitting for such an influential sire.

"Mr. Ramsay, how did you come to be here, in Lexington?" she asked.

The old man thought for a few minutes, then said: "I saw the horse business in Kentucky did better than in New York. All the great stallions were here, and still are today. It is a horse paradise, this town. I loved it."

But Jennifer knew the real reason. It had been nearly a decade since Alec Ramsay had moved into the little condominium in Lexington. Jennifer had still been in college when he arrived. Hopeful Farm, which had suffered financial hard times after the Black's death, was nearly bankrupt. Despite Alec's hard work to keep the farm, it was sold to a group of thoroughbred breeders at auction. Furious with everything to do with New York racing, he left the state, threatening to never go back. He'd kept his promise; though the New York racing scene hardly paid attention to the old man anymore. Once in Kentucky, he settled into the condo and hardly went out. It was quite heartbreaking, the way he'd ended up. 

"Mr. Ramsay, are you aware of any descendants of the Black racing today?" Jennifer asked. As she waited for his answer, she shuffled the newest _Racing Form_ to the top of her stack.

"No, Miss Pettigrew, I haven't been following racing like I used to," he replied.

Thirty days passed quickly for the Dark Strike team. Manuel spent his entire day at Striker's side, brushing, braiding, and checking every inch of the horse's body. He even slept outside the stall at night. During Striker's workouts, he watched from a spot in the grandstand he'd staked out, and was ready with water and towels when the horse came back blowing. Helen rode Striker every morning with a confidence she'd never had before. It was as if the desert air had done something to her head, for she found her timing sharper than ever. Jeremiah was up with the sun every day, planning works for Striker and analyzing the competition. He'd also developed quite a nice tan, much to Helen's chagrin.

"Why does everyone tan, but not me?" she whined.

Dark Strike had blossomed on the desert strip. His works were fast, he even posted the fastest work of the day twice. The heat didn't seem to bother him, either. Jeremiah decided that had something to do with his long-lost ancestor, though he didn't say it out loud. He worked at night, also, for the race was held at night, under the spotlights. The horse was fit and strong, the panther of the desert. He was ready to pounce.

The week of the Dubai World Cup went by in a blur. The McBees arrived that Monday. Georgie was even more talkative than usual; she had conversations with everyone at Nad-al-Sheba and lit the press on fire with her exuberance in answering their questions. Tuesday Dark Strike had his final work, in blazing fast time. The papers on Wednesday reported that Striker had blown himself out too hard, that he'd have nothing left for the race. Jeremiah ignored everything in the news, except the weather. Wednesday night was the post position draw, which was televised in Dubai and several European countries. 

Twelve golden eagle statues were lined up on a long table at the front of the Nad-Al-Sheba clubhouse. Each trainer was called to the front, where he chose one. On the eagle's base was a number; that number would be the post for the trainer's horse. 

Bob Baffert was first; Delta Bluesman would break from post five. Next was the Japanese trainer; Little Tokyo got post three. The Godolphin trainer went up for the first time for Dubai Magic; that colt was running from number one, the rail. The trainers went up, one by one, carefully choosing which eagle to take from the table. Jeremiah, cheered by the McBees, picked post position six. The final trainer was of the British filly, English Muffin; she got post ten.

The final post positions were listed on a large bulletin board behind the table of eagles:

Post 1: Dubai Magic (UAE)  
Post 2: Searchlight (USA)  
Post 3: Little Tokyo (JPN)  
Post 4: Wellspring (GB)  
Post 5: Delta Bluesman (USA)  
Post 6: Dark Strike (USA)  
Post 7: Monserrat (UAE)  
Post 8: Araztotle (FR)  
Post 9: Iron Giant (IRE)  
Post 10: English Muffin (GB)  
Post 11: Four O Clock (USA)  
Post 12: Singed (JPN)

Thursday everyone rested while the McBees toured the city. The day was fairly calm save for a terrible accident that morning, when one of the horses training for the Dubai Derby broke down. The colt was rushed to the on-track hospital where vets put his leg back together, but his career was ruined. This made everyone slightly jumpy, for injuries such as that were never predictable.

Friday, Helen took Striker out for a walk. This time Jeremiah rode alongside on Fez, who held his blazed face high, pompously strutting beside the regal thoroughbred.

"Helen, you know something?" Jeremiah began. 

"What?"

"Helen, I think we've got this race in the bag," he replied.

"You do? So sure? I think we've got a great chance, but even I, the 'newbie', know better than to make such bold statements," she said, in mock disbelief.

Jeremiah shot her an annoyed look. "Yes, I am so bold as to say something like that, _to you_, " he said. "I know something about Striker that may surprise you, that may make our chances look so much better than everyone else's."

"What do you know?" she asked, lowering her voice.

"Well, along back when I first told you about this race, I found something--"

"OH MY GOO-HOOD-NESS!!!" Helen shrieked. "I knew you'd find it! Oh my goodness! I know, you found that pedigree!"

"You know about that? How?"

"I gave it to you!" Helen cried, and she beamed.

"You gave it to me? So then you saw what was on there that is so interesting to me?"

"The Black!"

"Yes, The Black," said Jeremiah. "Striker has that staying blood in him, that Arab blood in him. Of all the others entered, he's the one who most belongs here. This is the Black's homeland, and I think that's why Striker has settled in so nicely. But it's also why he's been so high-strung."

At that, Striker reached over and nipped Fez's neck; the pony jumped sideways, nearly unseating Jeremiah. He settled the pony as Helen tried to hold back Striker.

"Let's go back," said Jeremiah. Fez, his pride broken, hung his head the whole way back.


	6. Black Legacy

Saturday.

Saturday. The barn was in a state of controlled pandemonium. Horses and grooms went back and forth between races. Trainers barked orders every which way, tension reflected in their voices. Spray from the washracks drifted into the American barn, soaking Manuel as he sat outside of Striker's stall. Helen, fake smile plastered on her face, paced back and forth, tapping her crop on the top of her boot.

"Gosh, I'm so nervous!" she said, barely whispering.

"If you say you win, you won't be nervous," said Manuel.

Helen sighed; Manuel was never nervous or worried about anything. \

"I don't like you," she said, very seriously. 

Manuel looked confused.

"Just kidding. You are just never worried, how do you do it?"\

"I always think I will win," he replied.

"I don't even know why I'm nervous, Baze is the one riding him!"

Jeremiah had asked Tyler Baze to ride Striker in the big race, though Helen had volunteered herself for the job. Jeremiah had chosen to go with the more experienced Baze, because of Helen's habit of overreacting before races. She was disappointed, but deep down she was glad she didn't have to deal with the pressure of bringing Striker home the winner.

The grandstand was packed with spectators. Gambling was prohibited in Dubai; nevertheless, oddsmakers mingled with the European contingent, collecting bets. The McBees had a box near the finish line, in the row reserved for owners. Georgie leaned over the box, trying to take everything in. Mrs. McBee pointed out celebrities and commented on the clothing the ladies in the next box were wearing. Mr. McBee got up several times to track down an oddsmaker who looked 'trustworthy'.\

Before the first race, Sheik Mohammed al Maktoum, founder of the World Cup, opened the day with a blessing. He asked that all the horses and riders return safely, and that they represent their countries well. Then the track cleared for the first race, the Dubai Derby.

Elliot Walden's Got Game won the Derby with style, scoring by two lengths. 

The day went by in a flash for the World Cup competitors. Race after race was run, on into the evening. At dusk, Jeremiah told Manuel to bring Striker out.

The big, black horse was like a shadow as Manuel led him to the saddling area under the grandstand. Jeremiah followed, rolling his _Racing Form_ nervously in his palms. People crowded along the path, snapping pictures. He stared at the ground, avoiding the eyes of the international TV cameras, deaf to the reporters' calls. All he could think about was his horse. Striker was following obediently beside Manuel, his eyes rimmed in white. 

At the saddling area, Baze was waiting for them. Dressed in the McBees' shiny yellow and black striped silks, he looked quite distinguished. He listened expectantly for Jeremiah's instructions. 

"Just do what you do," said the trainer, whose face looked incredibly weary.

Striker pushed against Manuel as Jeremiah saddled him. He threw up his head when the girth was tightened and stomped irritably. Slobber foamed at the corners of his mouth and ran down the groom's hands. Ears pinned, Striker swished his tail like a bullwhip.

The paddock judge gave the 'riders up' signal. Manuel led the prancing black horse out of the saddling stall and walked him to Baze, who bounded lithely onto the tiny racing saddle. The other entrants were flowing out of the paddock, and Manuel led Striker into line. Jeremiah watched as they passed under the grandstand. He joined the McBees and Helen in their box. Helen passed him his lucky binoculars, and he gazed through them, watching his horse. His job was done; it was up to Striker now. \par \tab On the track, the horses pranced and cantered slowly around the track. Georgie watched from her place in the stands as Dark Strike pulled against the jockey's firm grip. His ears were pricked forward, his neck was bowed. Under the spotlights, his black coat shone cobalt blue. 

The post parade turned halfway up the backstretch and approached the starting gate. Dark Strike and Dubai Magic were the first to load. Striker went easily, though the Godolphin runner hesitated before going into the iron cage. Next were Searchlight and Monserrat, then Little Tokyo and Araztotle. Wellspring and Iron Giant filed in at their turns. The horses stood quietly, their jockeys poised for the break. Only a few horses remained behind the gate. Delta Bluesman and English Muffin went calmly; but the final two horses, apparently tired of waiting, had begun to resist the starting gate crew. Four O Clock, a grey mare, refused to go near the gate. She balked and reared until the gate manager intervened. Singed, the last starter, was coaxed in the final slot. The assistant starters finally pushed the grey mare in, too. Tension rippled down the row as horses bumped the sides of the gate. 

Dark Strike rocked back on his hindquarters just as the gate sprang open. He leaped out and hustled to keep up with the early pacemakers, Araztotle and Wellspring. Halfway to the first turn Striker was fourth behind Singed. Four O Clock was running easy at the black horse's outside flank in fifth. Little Tokyo, Delta Bluesman, Dubai Magic, and Iron Giant made up the rest of the pack. Trailing the field were Monserrat, Searchlight, and English Muffin, who'd nearly fallen at the break.

The leaders dueled into the first turn, blazing through opening fractions of :22 and :23 and running four lengths ahead of the others. Singed eased back, and for a brief second, Striker was a head in front of the bay. Baze sat chilly, waiting for the time to turn the black horse loose. Striker's neck was bowed and bulged with power, ready for the signal. Wellspring dropped back from Araztotle, spent from the early effort. Singed surged past Striker, followed by Four O Clock, to take on the speedy chestnut leader. 

Iron Giant ranged up beside Striker on the inside. The son of Giant's Causeway was sharp, running easily. Striker sensed the rival's charge, and pulled against Baze, who let out a tiny bit of rein. Dubai Magic rushed up on Striker's outside at the same instant. The three horses thundered into the backstretch together as a team. Dirt flew up from their hooves, coating the horses with a fine layer of turf. 

Delta Bluesman began his run. English Muffin had recovered from her bad break and was following the Baffert trainee. Four wide, English Muffin charged past the battling colts and gained ground on Araztotle, who'd dropped back since giving up the lead to Singed. Finally, as if shaking off an annoying fly, Dark Strike burst from the pack after the mare.

Baze guided Striker around the fading Araztotle, who tried in vain to keep up. The beaten colt slowed, blocking Delta Bluesman and Iron Giant. The lead changed again; English Muffin overtook Singed and Four O Clock as they approached the final turn. Dark Strike was running hard, stretching and reaching to cover more ground. Into the final turn the horses rumbled; jostling, bumping, galloping for the lead. 

The jockey saw that the time had come; he tapped Dark Strike ever-so-slightly with his whip as he let out more rein. The black horse took off like a bullet. He swung around Four O Clock and Singed into second place. English Muffin pounded the track forcefully; Striker rushed up beside her. The black bore down on the mare, his eyes rolling, his ears flat against his skull. Then Dark Strike edged away from English Muffin. She fought to stay beside the black, but faltered. 

Meanwhile, Monserrat had made his move. The big-boned colt swept up to join Striker on the lead. The horses spilled into the stretch, the finish line only a hundred yards away. Striker gripped the bit fiercely between his teeth and plunged onward. Monserrat was gaining, coming up on the inside. The black horse could hear the crowd now; thousands of voices raised to a crescendo as the two horses, one dark as night, the other the color of a peppered moth, prepared for battle. 

In the stands, the McBees were on their feet. Georgie leaned out over the side of the box and yelled at the top of her lungs. Mr. McBee waved his fist at the horses and hollered profanity while Mrs. McBee clapped and shrieked. Jeremiah's hands shook so that he couldn't hold his binoculars steady. Helen jumped up and down, chanting encouragement, her hands moving in time with Baze's. Then she gasped, for coming strong behind the leaders was Searchlight.

Dark Strike couldn't see the mare, but he sensed her. Pinning back his ears, he charged again, opening up a length on Monserrat. But the grey came again; he quickly closed the gap and drew alongside the black once more. The two matched strides in the deep stretch, neither letting the other get even a nostril in front. Then it happened: the grey caught Dark Strike's liquid eye. He stared back, trying to stay focused. His jockey worked his neck furiously, then resorted to strong whipping. But it was no use; he simply couldn't pass the black horse. His competitive fire turned to anger. In a last, desperate effort to stay ahead, Monserrat reached over to Dark Strike, his teeth bared, and savaged the black. Then, spent, he fell back. Dark Strike drew away. Searchlight caught up with Monserrat and ran at his flank. The wire loomed just ahead.

Dark Strike lunged under the finish line, a half-length in front. Searchlight followed on his heels, and Monserrat staggered after her. Delta Bluesman got past the traffic jam for fourth. The stands erupted with cheers. Jeremiah threw his arms over his head and shouted, not even noticing the shattered binoculars on the ground. Helen danced around the box, giving high-fives to everyone she saw.

"We did it!"

Georgie, hoarse from screaming, her face flushed with tears, flung her arms around Jeremiah's neck. He hugged her back, and hugged Mrs. McBee, too, as Mr. McBee slapped his back.

"Let's go! Let's go!" Helen chanted, and the group, dazed with happiness, shuffled out of their box, past the thousands of spectators who reached out to shake hands with them, the winners.

Jennifer unfolded the copy of the _Racing Form_ on her lap and passed it to Alec. He held it in his withered hands, studying the headline and the full-page photo on the front page.

"This is as it should be," he said. "It is perfect."

"Dark Strike is a great, great grandson of The Black," Jennifer said. 

He nodded. "The eye told me; that horse has The Black's eye. He looks deep inside of you, looks through to your soul."

The winner's circle held a flurry of activity as Manuel led in Dark Strike, blowing and dripping with sweat. He pranced under the lights, his head held high, eyes wide, ears forward. Baze patted the horse's neck, careful to avoid the bloody gash just under the rein. Sheik Mohammed cleared the way through the crowd of reporters and well-wishers for the jubilant owners. Georgie rushed up to the horse and planted a kiss right on his nose. Mr. McBee shook Baze's hand as Mrs. McBee patted the horse's rump. Helen couldn't stop jumping around and waving. 

Jeremiah simply stood at the winner's circle entrance, staring in amazement. The sheik tapped him on the shoulder and motioned for him to join the McBees, who had already gathered beside Striker, next to the horse-shaped trophy. Jeremiah sighed and wiped his face with his sleeve; his eyes had begun to water. 

"It is a great accomplishment for a horse to win a race at a place with which he is unfamiliar," the sheik began. "The win is especially impressive when the track is half a globe away from his home. It is with great pleasure that I present this trophy to Mr. Robert and Mrs. Caroline McBee of the United States, for the courageous effort of their horse Dark Strike."

Mr. McBee took the heavy trophy from the sheik.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Maktoum," he said, "But this trophy really belongs to Jeremiah Reeves; he trained this horse and turned him into a winner."

Georgie took the trophy from her father and gave it to Jeremiah. He studied the bronze horse for a moment, then looked over at Striker.

"Thank you, Robert," he started, "but Dark Strike didn't really need me at all. He is a talented horse. Winning is in his blood. So, I dedicate this win to The Black, a horse who lived long ago, but whose spirit lives on in Dark Strike."

The black horse stood proudly as flashbulbs popped around him. He raised his regal head and whinnied. The sound carried over the crowds, past the backside, to the barren desert. The Black Stallion lived once more in Dark Strike, his incredible legacy.


	7. Notes

Notes on the Text

Notes on the Text

The story of The Black Stallion could never have happened in real life. The Black was an Arabian, and Arabians do not race against Thoroughbreds at the majority of American race tracks. However, in the early part of the 20th century, interbreed, Thoroughbred vs Arabian races were allowed (though never in the big stakes races such as those The Black ran in). This fact gave Walter Farley's books some accuracy. I set my story in the near future, and the original series makes up the backstory. Alec Ramsay would be a very old man today, so I wrote him as such.

Dark Strike's pedigree is partially fictional, but with just enough real horse blood to make him believable. He is a descendant of The Black, through his son Satan and Satan's son Black Fire (who I made up). Black Fire sired Dark Sands, who is the sire of Golden Sands, Dark Strike's granddam. Golden Sands produced a daughter called Golden Strike, by Smart Strike (a real Thoroughbred). Golden Strike was bred to Fusaichi Pegasus in the spring of 2004. In April 2005 Dark Strike was born, and five years after that, this story takes place. Simple, huh?

A pinhooker is a person who purchases a yearling or weanling at auction for a reasonable price, then trains the horse and resells it, sometimes several times over the price originally paid. Good pinhookers can see potential in very young, undeveloped horses that many would pass right by. 

The Dubai World Cup is a real race. Cigar really did win the first one. I have never been to the United Arab Emirates, but I tried to imagine what the track at Nad-Al-Sheba would look like. I did light research on it online, and figured I could wing a lot of the descriptions. I feel I've succeeded:-)

The post position draw was totally made up, though they do use eagles in some way during the process. Gambling is illegal in the UAE. I don't know if the gambling situation I have descibed could actually happen, but it's not a major thing. The Sheik really does pay for the horses and trainers to fly to UAE. 

The race itself was pieced together with slices of the most exciting races I've ever seen. The infamous 'staredown' tactic was used frequently by Silver Charm. The 'savageing' incident is the subject of a very famous photograph.

That's about all I can think of that I needed to explain. If anything else stumps you, feel free to email me @ sunflowerfarm1@prodigy.net 


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